Much More Than Was Promised
by SolEmrys Ashebourne
Summary: Rhaegar's Folly opened the door to Death's champion. In his veins burn Winter and Fire, in his wake comes Magic. Where Lions Roar and Stags Run Wild, he is the Dragon, the Sorcerer - yes, the Prince Who Was Promised, but so Much More. Powerful!Poilitical!MoD-Harry!Jon; Jaehaerys!Jon; Jon x ? (to be revealed - not Slash though; no offense, just not something I know how to write)
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

**Harrenhal, Shore of The God's Eye, Riverlands**

Stepping from the little skiff that had ferried across the God's Eye, Rhaegar breathed a heavy sigh. His lifelong melancholy weighed particularly heavy upon him tonight.

"My Prince. What said the Green Man, that his words weigh on you so?"

He turned to the speaker and met his violet gaze with his own. Arthur Dayne, his oldest friend, one of the 4 Kingsguard loyal to him above his father – who had guarded his greatest secret, the secret that had set his kingdom ablaze.

"Nought more than the self-same recriminations that have plagued me since this war began, Arthur. Words that tore away the veil of hubris and obsession that I used to justify my interpretation of Prophecy of Ice and Fire; that made me believe I could twist the designs of the Gods to mine own whims. All that I shall reap now, my old friend, will be the fruit of that arrogance."

As he spoke, Rhaegar sat down on the log Arthur had dragged close to the shore to serve as a seat. Cradling his head in his hands, he resumed speaking. "And now I must watch, from whichever Hell I am condemned to, as the Gods add my kingdom to this bloody harvest. I was a _fool_."

Before Arthur could do more than clasp Rhaegar's shoulder to stave off the self-loathing he could hear in his liege's voice, another voice intruded. "The Many-Faced God may yet grant wisdom to one who has seen the error of his ways before the eleventh hour."

The voice was as smooth and soft as silk as it poured through the two mens' ears. Arthur moved like greased quicksilver, Dawn clearing its sheath in an instant and suffusing the surroundings in soft, white glow. "Who goes? Show yourself!" Rhaegar, though silent, had loosed his own blade within the sheath, his violet gaze sweeping the treeline and hoping to catch a glimpse of the voyeur as a warning for Arthur.

"There is little cause for hostility this night, Sword of the Morning, Silver Prince. A man is not here to engage in violence."

Rhaegar's eyes narrowed at the distinctive Braavosi speech pattern. As the man stepped out of the trees not 10 feet ahead, he quickly took in his appearance. He was dressed in a pitch black, full sleeved coat that was lined with a dark green fur; a difference only apparent in the light of Dawn, and he realised that the colours hid him completely within a forest on such a moonless night. His hair was black and his skin almost the same shade as a Dornishman. But his eyes were a surprisingly vibrant shade of blue.

Gaze shifting down, Rhaegar spied a form fitting, matte black cuirass and greaves over trousers of tough, but flexible cloth. Slight bulges at the sleeves gave away the likely presence of vambraces. Rhaegar briefly puzzled over the lack of a visible weapon until he spotted the small golden symbol that formed the buckle holding together the many belts at the man's waist.

"An eagle… your speech… have Robert Baratheon and Jon Arryn arranged for me to receive a Gift from you, Faceless Man?" Focused as he was on the assassin before him, Rhaegar still felt Arthur tense up even further. Even with the advantage of numbers and arms, neither was under the impression that any man of the House of Black and White would die easily.

The Faceless Man smiled. "Nay Silver Prince. As this one said, this one has no wish to engage in hostilities tonight. Indeed, this one wished to speak with a Silver Prince on matters of great import – matters of fate, destiny and fealty."

Rhaegar could feel Arthur's bewilderment as clear as his own. Fate? Destiny? _Fealty_? "Since when does your order concern itself with such things, Faceless Man?"

Another enigmatic smile. "A prince asks this man 'when', when he should ask 'why'. However, before this man answers, perhaps the silent observer would care to reveal himself? As this one has said before, no hostile intent is meant tonight." Rhaegar and Arthur tensed again. Another observer?!

They followed the Faceless Man's gaze to their right as a man in a dark green, hooded cloak with antlers attached to his cowl stepped from the tree line to their left. A green man. "This one shall assume the Green Man observes through a man's eyes?" Though shadowed by the cowl, the slight red glow that came from the general area of the green man's eyes was all the answer the Faceless Man seemed to need. He turned back to an increasingly wary Rhaegar.

"It is true that a Prince made a grievous error in preempting prophecy. And that a Prince must bear certain consequences for it. However, a Prince also acted in free will, outside the design of Fate. This allowed the Many-Faced God to intervene where before he was unable."

Arthur's stance had loosened, his blade pointed down and away but still firmly gripped, ready to be brought to bear in an instant. As a Dayne of Starfall, he held to the Seven and knew not what to make of this man, this assassin, who so cavalierly claimed to know the actions of Gods. Rhaegar had similarly relaxed, his brow furrowed as his mind raced to decipher the many hidden implications of the Faceless Man's statement.

Surprisingly, it was the green man who spoke first, in a voice that sounded like 2 men speaking, thoroughly unnerving Prince and Knight in the process. "Intervene?"

The Faceless Man turned to look at the green man. "Explain, assassin. There are strict laws that restrain their ability to interfere in this or any mortal matter. Else this state of affairs would have been avoided entirely. As far as we are aware, none of the exceptions that might allow for such intervention were met. How does the God of Death involve himself in these matters?" Arthur and Rhaegar looked back and forth between these two men who spoke on behalf of Gods. Arthur, though not particularly pious, was about ready to start muttering verses from the _Seven-Pointed Star_ and the _Warrior's Way_; though he doubted their effectiveness so close to a bastion of the First Men and their Old Gods.

The enigmatic smile never so much as shifted.

"Quite simple, Green Man. The war all present are concerned with is more than a War for the Dawn. Its outcome will decide the fate of every man, woman and child on Planetos. If the Great Other should be victorious, should the Promised Prince fail – all life… all death shall be brought to an end. An endless unlife that will destroy the natural order as an eternal Winter reigns for eternity. In pre-empting… indeed, defying prophecy, a Prince has risked all this, for Westeros is torn asunder by the ambitions of petty, greedy men playing their foolish Game of Thrones."

Rhaegar's legs gave way as if they'd been cut from under him. He simply collapsed to a knee as the Faceless Man gave voice to the worst of his nightmares. Was this what he had unleashed? Had his hubris truly doomed not just his kingdom, but his race? A clatter drew his attention. Dawn had slipped from Arthur's suddenly numbed fingers as horror etched its way into every line of his face. Rhaegar fancied he even saw anger and well-earned rage aimed straight at him.

But the Faceless Man resumed speaking, and their eyes returned to him.

"And yet, it was this act of free will, even as it hastened the threat, cut the God of Death's restraints so that he may act to preserve his domain. And he has long since begun." Suddenly, the beach was bathed in a slight red glow that seemed to come from everywhere.

Rhaegar stood straight as the four looked up to see a star fall, trailing a tail of blood red light across the sky. The green man stumbled back as gazed up at the star.

"This one's greatest regards, Silver Prince. Your son has drawn his first breath this night – and with him, our greatest hope of salvation." There was a note of reverence in the Faceless Man's voice.

"What has He done?!" The green man's near shriek saw Rhaegar's sword clearing its sheath as Dawn appeared to simply materialize in Arthur's hands. "We all felt that! What has your God done?!" The enigmatic smile persisted. "Answer us!" The green man seemed to take a threatening step forward, his voice deepening, as the leaves rustled in the trees like whispers and ripples covered the God's Eye – all the while Rhaegar felt the conspicuous lack of a breeze upon his skin.

The smile vanished as the instrument of death (or would that be God of Death, Rhaegar faintly wondered) replaced the genial conversationalist. "Do not presume that this one is afraid of your power, Green Man. It holds little sway over him. Even your Gods know better than to harm one such as me." His tone was now clipped, cold… professional. Rhaegar decided to intervene before the Faceless Man did, in fact, engage in hostility.

"Peace! Both of you! Stand. Down. You said that there was to be no violence here, this day. Let it remain so, Faceless Man."

Silence continued to pervade the area for tense seconds. Eventually, the assassin relaxed as the green man stepped back. Rhaegar and Arthur took deep breaths as an invisible weight in the very air seemed to evaporate. The Faceless Man turned back to them, but the slight change in his stance showed that he hadn't completely taken his eye from the green man.

"This one thanks a Prince for reminding him of his purpose. This one is certain a Prince has questions. Ask, and this one shall answer as best he can."

Rhaegar placed his blade point first on the ground as he thought. Arthur relaxed as well, though his eyes were now firmly glued to green man, having been quite unnerved by the display of power he'd witnessed. Rhaegar's eyes quickly met thee Faceless Man's as he asked his first question.

"A son. You said my son had breathed his first tonight. Lyanna gave birth to a son?" The raw emotion was clear in Rhaegar's voice – joy, at the birth of his son and despair and fear, for his son would surely be hunted by Baratheon. The stag had bellowed his hatred for the Silver Prince across the kingdoms. Rhaegar had no faith that Eddard Stark would defend any child of his and Lyanna – not with that vile rumor that he had forced himself upon her. Rhaegar had privately scoffed when he'd heard it; Lyanna would have taken a dull, rusty knife and unmanned whichever fool tried that.

A kinder, more open smile presented itself upon the Faceless Man's visage. "Yes, o' Silver Prince. At least in that, you succeeded. The Prince Who Was Promised was born from the union of Ice and Fire." A wide, beaming grin took up residence on Rhaegar's face as Arthur clapped him on the shoulders and wished him congratulations. Then, Rhaegar paled. "My Prince?" Arthur became concerned as his prince turned the color of sour milk. The barest whisper reached his ears – "I wasn't there to help her through the birth. Forget Baratheon, Lyanna will kill me."

Arthur promptly turned away so as not to burst out laughing in his friend's face. The Faceless Man's smile had a tinge of wicked glee to it and he could have sworn he heard chuckles from the green man. Arthur spun back as he heard Rhaegar pull his sword from the ground. He saw that the blade had been levelled at the Faceless Man.

"You spoke of my son in connection to the God of Death's machinations. If you will not answer the Green Man, you _will_ answer me – what has your God done to _my son_?" Arthur had heard such anger in his liege's voice but once. Rhaegar had just found out how his father would beat and rape his wife; Arthur and Ser Barristan had heard Prince swear vengeance upon his father as he watched the Maester treat the Queen. His cold fury now put even that episode in the shadow. Arthur pitied the fools who believed that Rhaegar had little Dragon's Blood in him.

The Faceless Man raised his arms. "Peace, Silver Prince. This one shall explain. But rest assured, no harm has come to the Prince's boy." A glare of blazing amethyst told him to continue. The assassin obliged. "The Promised Prince would have faced great challenges in achieving his ordained destiny. The machinations of the Game and the petty jealousies of narrow-minded fools would have cost him much. To counter this, the God of Death has empowered him, personally and in other ways."

"How?" Rhaegar and the green man spoke in equally clipped voices.

"The God has placed limits on what this one can say, for there are more ears listening that even you know, Green Man. But he can tell you some. The God has re-established control over the Brotherhood. Through his Oracles, he has named the son of the Prince his anointed champion. Always will the child be guarded – he shall have no cause to fear the shadows, for this one and his Brothers shall protect him from that which walks within them.

"The boy himself shall be empowered. As he grows, his strength, speed and constitution shall grow to be greater than an ordinary man. He shall grasp the art of arms as if he were born for it, because he is. His mind shall be just as great, giving him the wisdom and insight to see as a general, as a king must." Arthur and Rhaegar were silent, their eyes wide and jaws ever so slightly hung in awe of the blessings the God of Death had given Rhaegar's son. The green man however, spoke.

"That isn't all. While admittedly impressive and useful, the God of Death would not use what little freedom to act he was granted on such singular changes. Nor would they account for the _shift_ we felt. What else has he done?" His voice was laden in suspicion and Rhaegar once again shifted to worry and wariness – especially because that glint of wicked glee had returned.

"The God of Death's final blessing was also his greatest. This one can only say this – Magic."

"What?!" All three men exploded in unison. Rhaegar continued. "Do you mean to tell me that the God of Death reawakened the magic in the Targaryen and Stark bloodlines within my son?"

"In a way." Came the simple answer.

"No." The men turned to green man. "No. The God of Death could not have been so careless. To reawaken magic is to risk the Great Other and his servants growing even stronger. To say nothing of what those fools to the far East might do. Why would he do this?"

The assassin's eyes narrowed. "The Green Man would do well to mind his tongue when he speaks of the God of Death. And he has not been careless, as the Green Man put it. While certain skills of the bloodlines of Ice and Fire were awoken within the child, the gift of Magic given to the child was much greater than anything that has ever been seen on Planetos. Furthermore…" Here the Faceless Man stopped, as thunder cracked on a cloudless night and he bent over in a coughing fit.

"The God restrains this one's tongue. This one cannot say further. Rest assured, there is little chance the Great Other or the servants of _other powers_ could gain much from that blessing." Rhaegar turned to the green man, by whom he had begun to judge this world of divine machinations. Since his only response was a slight "Tch!" before looking back at the Faceless Man, Rhaegar had to assume he was being told the truth.

He sighed. "Very well. I must agree that the blessings my son has received are indeed wonderous. However, superhuman physical attributes and magic will not avail my infant son just yet and even your Brotherhood would struggle to secure him against all the Seven Kingdoms should Baratheon win. Shall I arrange for Lyanna to sail for Essos with my son and the Kingsguard now, where you can better protect them both?" The Faceless Man tilted his head to the side, his eyes flickering around as he thought his answer through.

"That would be unwise." Strangely, it was the green man who answered Rhaegar. The prince and Arthur looked at him in confusion. Until now, the green man appeared to be as mystified and off-guard as they – answers from him were a little jarring. The Faceless Man simply raised an eyebrow. The green man snorted. "The God of Death's interference may have muddied the waters where our Sight is concerned, but the immediate future is little changed. And certain conclusions can be drawn about events beyond that, given what you have told us."

Rhaegar took on a bittersweet countenance. Some small part of him had hoped that he might actually meet his son thanks to these events; but it seemed his fate, no matter how the Green Man had prevaricated, was inevitable. His attention returned to the green man. "While the Old Gods now restrain our tongues as well, we can tell you than the child will be safe here in Westeros. He also has certain roles to play here. Leaving would be counterproductive, to say the least. We are also certain the Brotherhood has begun to make arrangements to protect him more directly?" The enigmatic smile returned as the Faceless Man inclined his head.

"Very well, then." Rhaegar took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. He looked up as the first light of dawn struck the beach from the east. "Then we had all best get to our tasks. Many preparations need be made."

The green man nodded and faded back into the treeline as Arthur sheathed Dawn and walked over to the horses, preparing them for the journey. Rhaegar looked over to where the Faceless Man was walking for the treeline.

"Wait." The assassin turned around. "Baratheon… Varys tells us that he has sworn to end the Targaryen line. Your God has ensured the safety of Lyanna's son. But Elia, Rhaenys, my mother, brother and mother's unborn child – my heart fills with dread to think of their fate at Baratheon's hand. Or worse, Tywin Lannister's. My fate is sealed, this I understand, and I know I likely have little right to ask this of you. But if my son is your God's champion, can you protect the remainder of his family?"

The Faceless Man regarded Rhaegar for a long moment, as the sun continued to rise into the sky. Then he plucked a pouch from within his cloak and threw it to Rhaegar. He caught it, hearing the clink of metal within. He looked at it, then the Faceless Man in confusion.

"Whosoever bears one of these tokens to the House of Black and White, shall have sanctuary within the Brotherhood, until the God commands otherwise." With that, the Faceless Man raised the hood of his cloak and strode away on silent feet into the shadows of the forest, vanishing from view in seconds.

Arthur walked over as Rhaegar opened the pouch and teased out one of the tokens to examine. It was circular, 1 ½ inches across and made of what appeared to be bronze. On one side was the eagle of the Brotherhood, wings outstretched and talons forward as if to snatch some unsuspecting prey. The Titan of Braavos loomed behind it. The background was checkered in alternating darker and lighter bronze – evoking the iconic door to the House of Black and White in Braavos.

Then Rhaegar turned the coin over and both men blinked in confusion. The symbol there was strange and unknown – even to the extensively read prince. But even so, it evoked a sense of… something, within them. Calm, trepidation, wonder, fear and a sense of immense age and power filled them as their eyes traced it.

A circle, encased in a triangle and bisected by a straight line.


	2. Chapter 01 - Beginnings

**Before we get the official first chapter started, I need to get a few things out of the way.**

**1) Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh! My! God! At the time I'm writing this AN, it's only been 1 day since I uploaded the Prologue to Much More Than Was Promised. And I've already got 74 favorites and 103 follows! I know it doesn't sound like much, but I value every single one of them. To those who read my story and enjoyed it enough that they decided to follow, my sincerest thanks.**

**However, it is the 10 reviewers who took the time to send in their opinions, or simply to say they enjoyed/were interested in/looking forward to my story who I cherish most dearly. Thank you to Poseidon3000 (my first reviewer!), ImTyJ, h4lfbl00dprinc3 (love the username, btw!), AvalonRivers, warkaiser, orionastro, Sageofchaos, Loke13 and BoredKing. But a special Thank You and shout out to Esila173 for not only sending in excellent constructive criticism, but also helping me iron out several important plot points.**

**2) So, this is my second official story, but the one that I am most invested in. As such, all the feedback that I can get on my story is valuable. If you feel that something doesn't make sense, throw up a review or shoot me a PM and I'll be most happy to discuss it with you. However, I'd like to tell you my 2 creeds of fanfiction – Don't Like, Don't Read (from one of my favorite authors DZ2) and Flames Will Be Used for Smores. Pointless negativity, rude language, etc. will be disregarded.**

**3) I do not own Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire or Harry Potter.**

**Now that's done, let's start.**

* * *

**Chapter 1 – Beginnings**

**Winterfell, 288 AC**

The North.

The Kingdom itself evoked disdain, distrust, and derision in the lords of the south, but also deeply hidden feelings of awe and envy, that they would rather die than admit to.

The very name evoked disdain, distrust and derision in the Lords of the south.

It was a distant land to most of them, isolated. Merchants spoke of no great wonders that might stir the southrons from their keeps; riches like the West, or fertile plains like the Rivers and the Reach. They had no stake in the great game, didn't even seem to care about it.

Not that they ever worried about any northern House entering the game! Their Lords wore leathers and furs, dismissing decent silks and satins as useless trifles. The same for tourneys and balls. What power could they wield in the game, when they lived in such squalor?

The worst however were their 'Old Gods'. What absurdity?! No wonder they were barbaric savages with no understanding of what civilization truly was. They believed their gods lived in trees, and dirt, and rivers. How could one expect them to be any different?

Old tales spoke of the blood sacrifices they performed, executing men before those carved trees of theirs. They wondered if the Northmen would bleed themselves before the trees, chanting to their heathen gods in that Old Tongue of theirs.

No, they did not care for these… people, cursed as they were for denying the Seven and civilization itself.

Despite all this, in the dark of the night, when the moon hung high, surrounded by the tapestry of stars, they would hear the leaves rustle in the wind, and they would remember.

They remembered that the Starks were the oldest of the Great Houses. For eight thousand years, the Starks had ruled as the Winter Kings in an unbroken dynasty of legendary honor, and achievement.

They remembered how the great keeps of the North – the Last Hearth, the Dreadfort, Deepwood Motte, and of course, Winterfell – were raised thousands of years ago. The Andals, by comparison, were still nomadic tribes slaughtering each other, not so different from the Dothraki of today.

They remembered the Wall, the greatest structure in the known world, beyond even. The Hightower of Oldtown, the Red Temple of Volantis, the Great Pyramids of Slaver's Bay, and the Titan of Braavos, none of them compared. Built by giants to stand against the White Walkers, it was the living proof of magic, that every Maester of the Citadel tried to forget or explain away.

They remembered Moat Cailin and the Neck, where army after army of Andals shattered itself, trying to conquer the North. Even Aegon the Conqueror did not risk his forces against that fearsome citadel. They remembered the fury of Theon Stark, the Hungry Wolf who annihilated Andalos.

They remembered the honor given to Torrhen Stark by the Conqueror - named the first Lord Paramount after the Conquest because he knelt to the Dragon rather than shed the blood of his people…

They remembered the rumoured Pact of Ice and Fire - an agreement forged during the Dance of Dragons; a Targaryen princess to wed the Stark heir, and the prospect of their being raised to a Princely House.

And they would squirm at just how small their own legacies felt in comparison.

Then came the morning sun and they were captivated once more by the lustre of the south.

But in that small corner of their mind that came to the fore at the edge of sleep, they would always remember the truth of that cold, mysterious expanse ruled by the Starks.

ΦΔΘΦΔΘΦΔΘΦΔΘ

For those who'd laid eyes on Winterfell, this truth was most starkly apparent.

Their memories were forever etched with awe, with the sheer weight of history and legend that pressed down on them by the soaring towers as they passed across the great stone bridge that spanned the moat between the two massive curtain walls, to enter the bailey of the Great Keep.

And evermore they would turn away in discomfort when someone would disparage the North.

But I wonder how long that sense of awe would persist if they could see Winterfell now. For in the face of an unseasonable snowfall – many a Northman snorted derisively if they heard a southerner call it a blizzard – the entire citadel heaved like an overturned anthill. Men-at-arms, maids and young children alike ran about, their superiors barking orders like generals on a battlefield. Traders and craftsmen in the keep and Wintertown were accosted, their caravans and stores turned upside down by Winterfell's guards.

And, to a one, they gave the Great Hall a wide berth; for therein paced an agitated Wolf, with a terrible glare and even more terrifying growl.

The cause of this havoc?

Why, Jon Snow had gone missing.

* * *

**Great Hall of Winterfell**

**Catelyn**

"Search the Godswood! Cassel! Have those riders left for the Wolfswood yet?! Scour the Towers, take torches and delve the Crypts, everything! FIND! MY! SON!"

Ned Stark's rage rang off the walls as he paced in front of the High Table. Several of the senior servants of the castle, along with Ser Rodrik Cassel and Maester Luwin stood to the sides, watching their lord nervously.

Oh, they'd witnessed similar fury from Lord Rickard, Brandon and even Benjen. But she was certain they had **never** seen _Eddard Stark_ lose his composure in so spectacular a fashion.

At the High Table, Catelyn scowled slightly as she carded her hand through Robb's hair and bounced 3-year-old Sansa in a one-armed embrace, keeping them in their exhausted slumber. Both had been incredibly distressed when they'd learned the bastard had gone missing and had only just settled down, clinging to her and refusing to go to their rooms. Her expression only twisted further.

Her children saw the bastardas a _brother_, too young to heed her command to stay away – to stay away from the boy who looked more like a Stark, like Ned, than her own auburn-haired Robb; away from those violet eyes and aristocratic face that so invoked Ashara Dayne, the beauty who'd stood equal to Queen Rhaella herself. Whom the servants whispered was the boy's mother, when they believed she could not hear.

It put a bitter taste in her mouth and green envy in her mind to hear her husband call the boy his.

"My Lord. Please. I know you are worried, but you must remain calm. The bast...boy l-l-learned how to protect himself during winter from Ser Rodrik alongside Robb. He will know how to stay safe until the riders and hounds find him."

"Please, Ned. You must calm down, for Robb and Sansa if nothing else. Please," Catelyn pleaded.

After a long moment, she breathed a sigh of relief as Ned sunk into a seat at one of the benches, cradling his head in his hands. A slight shiver crawled down her spine as she remembered the cold, steel grey eyes that had pierced her when she had attempted to call the boy by his proper station; the sheer icy fury had her stuttering like a child brought in shame before her father. Bitterness welled up again as she saw the surreptitious looks the servants in the hall sent her, no doubt realising what had happened.

"The lady speaks truly, Lord Stark. Jon is a bright young boy and he learned Rodrik's lessons well. He even asked for what instruction I was willing to give him in general medicine; binding wounds, simple herb lore, and the like. He is intelligent and equipped to survive this storm," Maester Luwin interjected quickly.

"Aye, my Lord. I ensured the Young Lord and Snow learned how to keep warm and find or build shelter. Snow's an intelligent, capable boy. He'll be found, my Lord," Rodrik Cassel tried to reassure his liege.

Luwin and Rodrik's words seemingly brought little comfort to the not-so-Quiet Wolf. In fact, Catelyn observed with narrowing eyes, Ned had only tensed further when the bastard's intelligence and physical capabilities were mentioned.

Before any further thoughts could be had, a clangour could be heard in the distance as the portcullis on the internal wall was raised. Everyone tensed as Ned leapt from his seat. Footsteps could be heard approaching at a run. The doors to the Great Hall slammed open, waking Robb and Sansa with a start, silent but watching the interloper with wide eyes.

He was a tall man, only inches taller than Ned. His skin was much darker than any Northman, indicating Dornish or Essosi ancestry somewhere in his family tree. He possessed the same long hair and beard most Northmen did, but his was tamed and groomed, much like Ned's. His eyes were violet, but of a much darker shade than the bastard's. This was…

"Caspian! You've found him?!" Ned barked. Yes, Caspian. A sellsword from Essos who had accompanied Ned back from King's Landing as he returned from Dorne, apparently due to the fact that Ned had saved his life. In a surprising show of honor, the sellsword had sworn his blade to the Wolf Lord until he could repay the debt to satisfaction.

She would have disliked him on principle. His profession and the general lack of loyalty to anything but gold that afflicted most sellswords ensured that, but she particularly disliked this one. He'd taken a liking to the bastard, begun to teach and train him. Given that rumors whispered, he was quite possibly the most skilled blade in the keep. It truly rankled her that Caspian was training the bastard rather than the trueborn son of his liege.

"Aye, my Lord. I did. Cassel, you taught the brat well. The hounds tracked him straight to an alcove he'd dug under a massive maple not five miles west of here. He's alive my Lord," Caspian responded sharply.

The relief on Ned's face and in his short laugh, the beaming smiles on the faces of the servants, all of them felt like little needles being shoved into her skin. Then Robb shifted and spoke.

"Father. They've found Jon, right? Is he alright?" Even Sansa squirmed around in her arms to look imploringly at her father.

"Yes, my boy. Caspian has found Jon, and he's fine," Ned said. Bright smiles took up residence on their faces, Robb jumping out of the chair and tackling his father cheering.

Sansa responded by laughing and clapping, repeating "Jon! Jon! Jon!" over and over again. The needles drove themselves deeper.

"Not quite, my Lord." Caspian's somber statement smothered the jubilation faster than if they'd all been thrown headfirst into a snowdrift. All eyes snapped to him.

"Caspian? Speak plainly and quickly." Ned's bark was back.

"My Lord. It's true the boy is alive and breathing. But he is _incredibly_ cold. His lips had gone blue and he was not conscious when we found him. I dared not check his fingers and toes for frostbite while returning for fear of doing undue damage. Least ways his ears showed no evidence. Maester, he should be at your tower by now," Caspian explained, nodding at Luwin as he finished.

It was incredibly silent for a few seconds. Then, even as Ned whirled on Luwin, presumably to order him hasten for his tower, the Maester had reached the door and vanished at speeds that left the rest of them blinking in shock. Frail Luwin could move that fast?

Then they snapped out of it. Ned gathered Robb up in his arms and followed Luwin at a run, with Caspian in tow, both shouting orders for hot water, towels, dry clothes and blankets to be sent to the Tower.

After a brief instant of hesitation, Catelyn gripped a now distraught Sansa, and followed at a more sedate pace.

As she approached the Tower, several servants could be seen rushing to and fro. As she arrived at the infirmary on the ground floor, she saw Ned and Caspian undressing and drying the bastard, while Robb stood to the side with towels in his hand. Luwin was across the room, ordering the servants on errands like brewing ginger tea, and gathering more blankets to raise the boy's temperature while he busied himself checking the boy for wounds.

Within minutes, the boy was dried, clothed and smothered in blankets while Luwin carefully poured his potions into the boy's mouth, massaging his throat to make him swallow. By now, Sansa had squirmed out her arms and toddled over. '_This morning she stumbled just walking. Damn that bastard!'_ Catelyn thought, as Sansa stood on her toes so she could pat at his barely visible cheeks.

"Wake up, Jon. Mama make a new doll. You always help name it. Wake up," Sansa begged, close to tears.

She found herself in something of a dilemma. The heartbreak in Sansa's voice as she pleaded with the bastard to 'wake up' made her heart hurt. But at the same time, she felt rage at the devastation on Robb and Ned's faces, rage at the bastard for inspiring it all.

Ned reached over to hug Sansa and Robb to his chest. "Luwin?" he asked softly.

"A mixture of good news and bad news, my lord. His fingers and toes show no evidence of frostbite, however, the slight blue tinge to his lips means that his heart is beating weaker and slower than I would like and he is cold to the touch."

"The tea should begin working soon. I have also administered a tincture that will speed his heartbeat, increasing the flow of blood through his body. If he…" here Luwin hesitated, then took a deep breath. "I will be direct, my Lord. Jon surviving the night is in the Gods' hands. But if he still breathes at sunrise tomorrow, he should live to recover."

There was a tense silence. Catelyn realised that the door to the infirmary was still open and the servants that had been milling outside awaiting orders, had also gone quiet at this pronouncement.

Sansa and Robb buried themselves in Ned's chest, tears flowing down their cheeks, while Caspian looked at the bastard's bed with a truly shattered expression.

"Have heart, my Lord. Jon is the strongest lad I've ever seen." The quick flick of Luwin's eyes toward her was unmistaken. "He will live."

"He must," Ned's voice was hoarse. "For their sake," he hugged Robb and Sansa tighter, "if for no one else, for them… he must."

For a moment Catelyn almost wished the same, before she caught herself.

* * *

**Jon**

He was surrounded by white.

In ordinary circumstances, this wouldn't have phased him. He was a child of the North, after all. It wasn't strange for him to make this observation, even in Summer.

But this wasn't an ordinary, snow-covered vista he might have spied from a guard tower. No, there were no trees, no rocks, no rivers. Nothing, not even a sky. He was surrounded by an endless ocean of white. If it wasn't for the ground beneath him - also white - he might have been completely disoriented.

Wasn't he just in the Wolfswood, sheltering under a tree, waiting for the snow to stop so he could head back to Winterfell? Where was he now?

"Nowhere, Jon Snow."

Jon nearly jumped out of his skin. It had been so silent he could hear his heartbeat in his ears without trying. He should have heard someone else, the rustle of their clothes, their breathing even. He spun, looking for the man who had spoken, but he was still alone in this endless white.

"Who are you? _Where_ are you?" His voice was frantic. For perhaps the first time in his short life, Jon was scared.

"Calm, little one. I'm right here."

Jon spun again and froze.

The man before him was tall, perhaps even as tall as his Father. His build, however, was different, Jon idly noted. Where his father was powerfully built, this man was thin, lithe and graceful. Don't get him wrong, he could see muscle, but he was more like Master Caspian, built for speed over strength.

Two other things however, warred for his attention.

One was the sense of **power** this man exuded. It hung about him like a cloak… a mantle. Jon wondered if this man was one of the Old Gods. It didn't _feel_ like he was standing before a god. Oh, there was power and a quiet sense of authority, but Jon didn't feel the need to bow, kneel, defer, or submit. In fact, it felt like when he spent time with his father or Caspian - comfortable, safe, familiar. Like when Father would ruffle a hand through his hair.

But the other fact quickly won out over everything else.

The man looked like him. Yes, he was older; a fully-grown man, but Jon could recognize himself in this man as clearly as he would in a mirror. They were _exactly,_ wait, no… There was something different.

The eyes. Jon knew his eyes were an oddity in the North. Rather than the shades of brown, grey, or blue that were prevalent amongst the First Men, Jon's eyes were like the sky at sunset. A shade of purple that ranged from dark blue to violet. Sansa had once said that light of any kind, whether from a torch or the sun, made them shine like gems in her mother's jewellery.

In Jon's humble and considered opinion, this man's eyes looked more like emeralds cut into the shape of eyes and imbued with a silver fire. Jon had little trouble imagining that this man's glare, from those eyes, could freeze White Walkers, but for now they were warm, dancing with mirth and affection.

"W-w-who…? _How_?"

"How can I look like you?" the man asked.

Jon nodded.

The small smirk that took over his face only enhanced the mischievous impression the man exuded. Jon doubted that Lady Stark would hesitate to label him a troublemaker should they ever meet. "Well. That's a long story."

Only now did Jon notice that his voice was… familiar. No, he'd never heard it before. Had he? No, he hadn't. And yet, his voice, smooth as honey and possessing a depth that Jon felt was suited to speaking words of power, was one that resonated within him, as if he'd spent a lifetime listening to it. A chuckle got his attention.

He looked up to see the mischievous smirk had turned into a true smile of amusement. Jon was puzzled for a moment, before he blushed horribly. He thought back a few moments to when the man had appeared. Could he hear his thoughts? A widened smile was all the answer he needed. Great, he'd just embarrassed himself in front of a god.

"Not quite, little one." Jon blushed and ducked his head. Another chuckle. "Why don't you take a seat?" Jon's head jerked up. But there were no… oh.

ΦΔΘΦΔΘΦΔΘΦΔΘ

They were no longer in the endlessly white space. Jon now appeared to be standing in a richly appointed solar.

Bookshelves lined one wall from floor to ceiling, packed with books bound in a dizzying array of colors. Their spines glowed with strange scripts. The library of a god? Jon fought hard to repress the urge to lunge for them.

The floor was covered in a thick rug of an unidentifiable, yet almost sinfully soft material. Jon idly imagined that Lady Stark would give anything to have this placed throughout Winterfell. Another wall was a bank of windows that looked out over a truly massive forest, snow capped peaks in the distance. This made him realise that the solar was several stories above the ground. Jon wasn't sure, but perhaps at the same height as the Broken Tower?

To one side of the windows, the floor rose up in a semicircular fashion. Three short stairs led up to the platform, upon which sat an elaborate wooden desk. Two pillars rose from the circumference so as to frame the desk from where Jon stood. Two staircases followed the curve of the room from either side of the desk, leading to a higher floor where Jon could see more books, strange instruments, and artifacts. He even saw what looked like a floating sphere of gold.

Questions abounded within Jon's mind. He almost intuitively knew what it would feel like to sit at that desk, work in this solar; like he'd spent decades behind it. He shook his head and kept going. How could he possibly know that? He was barely 5 name days old!

On the walls, behind the desk, were dozens upon dozens of frames. Their canvases were empty, but once again, something whispered that they weren't always like that. To the right of the desk was a large fireplace, cold at the moment.

The god was seated behind the desk and as Jon approached, he waved his hand, conjuring another chair for Jon to sit in. Jon stopped, looking at it wide eyed and extending a hand to touch it. It was real!

Jon was still extremely cautious. He'd been invited into a god's inner sanctum. There had to be a reason, presuming this wasn't just a fevered dream. He felt the god's eyes on him every step of the way. The seat of the chair came up to about his stomach, even though he was quite tall for his age. He clambered up and sat, his legs swinging in empty space as if he were sitting on his father's lap again, not something he did very often, he thought with some bitterness.

Again, he shook his head and looked back at the man. The mischief had abated some. Jon's cheeks burned as he saw a slight sympathy in them.

"You were going to explain." His annoyance at the perceived pity temporarily putting it out of his mind that he may well be conversing with a god. "Am I dead? Are you Death? Can I send Sansa, Robb, and Father a message, tell them I'm sorry?" His voice trembled as he finished speaking.

Jon's annoyance built back up as he saw sadness and_ was that guilt?_ on the man's face. He didn't want anyone's pity. Not even a God's. He just wanted answers.

"Well?"

The man leaned back in his chair and sighed with closed eyes.

"No Jon. You aren't dead. But you came close. This space is the world between the mortal world and the Afterlife. You are _between_. Almost dead, but not quite." Jon shivered slightly, a slight chill sweeping through his bones at how plainly he spoke those words. The god's eyes flicked to the fireplace. Jon jumped as _silver-white_ flames ignited, suffusing the air with warmth.

Rubbing his arms and looking at the fires to give himself time to think of his next question. "You did not answer my second question."

"You are Death, aren't you, my Lord? You said I almost died in the Wolfswood, didn't you?"

The god… Death, nodded hesitantly. "You almost did, yes. However, your Master Caspian and the hounds of Winterfell found you before you were in true danger and returned you to the citadel. Even now, you are asleep in the Maester's Tower, your father and siblings keeping vigil through the night, hoping that you live to see the sunrise."

Death waved his arm and the fire roared higher. The warmth never changed. Jon was more interested in the image that appeared in the flames.

He recognized the infirmary. He almost smiled when he realised that he was in the same bed he'd ended up in when he got injured during Master Caspian's training once. Two months with his arm bound. His father scolding Master Caspian for Jon's broken arm did mollify him a little.

Jon also rather fondly remembered Sansa kicking Master Caspian's shins in retaliation. Father had scolded her too, but something had told Jon his heart really wasn't in it; the smile his father had been trying to repress perhaps?

Jon did smile when he saw that Sansa was curled up on his chest, clutching her favorite doll while Robb lay at his left.

The smile rapidly vanished when he saw the dried tear tracks, heard their hitching breaths as they slept fitfully. Panic settled in as he saw his father sitting at the foot of the bed, his head bowed over clasped hands, clearly praying. Maester Luwin walked into the image to examine him. His father's head snapped up.

Jon stared at his father's face. His skin was pale, drawn over his skull as if he'd lost weight. Dark circles had taken up residence below his eyes, indicative of exhaustion.

"Luwin?" His voice was scratchy, as tired and full of worry as the rest of him.

"No change yet, my lord. That's still a good thing," Luwin reassured him.

His father's eyes settled back on Jon's unconscious form, as Luwin moved away. "Forgive me…" came the faint whisper from his father.

Why was he begging for forgiveness? It was Jon's fault that he was in this mess. His father had nothing to do with this! Jon started to breath rapidly, absolutely frantic now.

"Send me back. I don't care what price I have to pay! _Send me back to my family_!" Jon practically screamed the last part, breaking into sobs. He jumped out of the chair and tried to jump into the fire, hoping it would take him back.

Powerful arms grabbed him in an embrace. He screamed and shouted and struggled, tears flowing down his face. "_Send me back! Send me back! Send me back! **Please!**_" Eventually, he tired and collapsed to the floor sobbing relentlessly, Death's arms still around him. "I don't want to die…" The words left his mouth unbidden, almost drowned in his tears. Then he registered a hand ran through his hair as well as the tightened embrace.

Death was… comforting him?

"Hush, little one. I did not come to take you away. It isn't your time yet. It won't be for decades just yet. Hush. Stop your tears now, brave little one. Hush."

Jon didn't know how much time passed, clinging onto Death's robes as he whispered comfort into Jon's ears, but eventually, his tears stopped. Whether this was because he ran out of tears or grief, he didn't know. He felt Death pick him up and settle back in a chair, Jon nestled against him.

"Well. Now that you've calmed down, we can talk."

Jon buried his face back into the robes, embarrassment warring with grief and terror.

"Jon. Remember what I said. You aren't dead."

Jon jerked backwards to look up at Death. The face that was so like his looked down at him, filled with unending compassion and kindness. "I-if I'm not d-d-dead, then why am I here?" And why couldn't he go back? Death smiled again.

"Of course you can go back. I told you it wasn't your time yet, didn't I? You will return to the waking world in time, Jon. But you are here, speaking with me for a reason. I will explain, but you must calm down first." Here Death turned a solemn, serious look upon him. Jon quickly nodded, wiping his eyes on his sleeves.

"Alright, Lord Death. I'll listen." He was still scared, but if he wasn't dead, then he should listen. Th faster that was done, the faster they finished here, and the faster he might return, right?

Blushing at the realisation that he was still in Death's lap, he jumped off and scurried back to his seat. Death was got up as well, an amused smile on his face.

"None of that 'Lord' business now, Jon. Call me… Hadrian, if you must." Jon frowned, puzzled. Why would a god ask him to call him by what sounded like his real name? Wasn't that disrespectful? Lady Stark would certainly have his hide if he ever disrespected _her_ Seven like that.

"That would only matter if I was a god, Jon. Of Death, the Dead or otherwise."

Jon started again, almost used to his thoughts being read. Wait. He _wasn't_ Death? The man shook his head in the negative.

"No Jon. My identity is much more complicated than that. In many ways, you could say that… I am you."

* * *

**Catelyn**

She knelt on the floor, head bowed in supplication and guilt.

Four days ago, the bas-_boy_ had been returned. A hopeless sob escaped her. _'I can't even think that word anymore.'_

ΦΔΘΦΔΘΦΔΘΦΔΘ

That first day, when the sun rose and the boy was still breathing, the entire castle had celebrated as if the King had come to Winterfell. Word spread around the castle that Luwin had confirmed the boy would live. Maids had sweet smiles, the cook made an assortment of sweets for the children of the keep and a whole batch of lemon cakes just for Sansa.

Ned and Caspian were grinning like loons, while Robb had picked Sansa up by the arms and had started clumsily dancing around the infirmary, Sansa just giggling away as her brother spun her around.

And again, bitterness, jealousy and spite had twisted her stomach, drowning out the relief at seeing her family happy again.

What was so special about the bastard that he inspired such _love_ in them all, she wondered. She had wanted to rant and rail against the injustice of it, but she controlled herself with all the grace her upbringing instilled in her.

"_Congratulations, my lord. Your bastard will live."_ She'd said as she walked away, unable to reign in that little bit of vindictiveness, but even that hadn't put a damper on the celebration from what she could hear.

ΦΔΘΦΔΘΦΔΘΦΔΘ

For the next two days, the atmosphere was light, as all of Winterfell waited for the boy to wake up.

However, after the evening meal on the second day, Luwin had entered the Great Hall, an extremely worried look on his face.

"_My lord. Jon has developed a fever. He has no wounds, which rules out infection, thank the gods. I can only assume that the cold weakened him further than I expected. I believe that this may have been caused by the remnants of the cold that swept through the castle last week."_

"_I had hoped Jon would awaken before he weakened to this point. While I have begun to treat the fever… Once again, I must be direct, my Lord. Even if the fever breaks, even if we feed him bone broth and soup, now that he is susceptible to these fevers, if he doesn't awaken soon..."_

She had watched Ned's expression crumple as Robb buried his face in his father's chest. Sansa had turned to Ned, confused, looking on with a tremulous expression because she could not understand what Luwin was saying. She only that something was wrong with Jon.

When Ned had haltingly explained it to her, that Jon was sick again, she had run for the infirmary. They'd found her curled up on Jon's chest begging him to wake up in between her tears.

Cat had tried to pull her away, citing that the sickness could affect her as well. Luwin put paid to that when he explained that it wasn't contagious as the boy's nose was clear and his breathing unlabored. The fever was the body fighting the cold, a fever he was only susceptible to due to the prolonged coma. Robb joined Sansa on the bed, hugging her as they both whispered at Jon to wake up. Thankfully, the exhaustion of crying soon caught up to them.

The fell asleep, Sansa on Jon's chest, Robb next to him; tears reduced to hiccups and uneven breathing.

Once again, Ned took up vigil at the boy's bed, telling her to leave Sansa and Robb where they were. By this time, she had been exhausted and angry.

Angry at her family for loving the boy so much, angry at the boy for burrowing his way into her family and keep's hearts.

She blamed this emotional turmoil for what she'd done next.

She had been on her way to her chambers, when her simmering anger had boiled over. Her feet had carried her to the Sept Ned had built for her.

And there…

She'd prayed at the feet of the Stranger, lighting a candle.

She'd prayed for the boy to die, to die and let her have her family back. He had taken them from her, made them love him more than her.

She'd prayed to the Stranger to take the boy away, to give him a paradise of peace or let him be reborn elsewhere, so long as she did not have to suffer him further.

Then the door had opened. She had lurched to her feet, her eyes meeting Caspian's.

She had forgotten that the sellsword also worshipped the Seven. At first, there was a look of utter surprise on his face; perhaps he thought that she was there to pray for the boy's recovery? Then his eyes ran over the statues and saw the candle. Saw where it rested.

The sheer _hate_ she saw in his eyes, as if he wanted nothing more than to tear her apart, it terrified her even now. His eyes reflected the light of the candle, the yellow-orange mixing with the violet to produce an almost blood red that had haunted her dreams ever since.

"_You dare? You… prayed for him __**to die**__?! I will see you removed from Winterfell for this… this monstrosity! How could you… you don't deserve to be a mother! __**Get out of here!**__"_

If his final scream hadn't set her to flight, his sword clearing its sheath did. But he simply strode past her and swung it at the candle she had lit, cutting it and its cursed prayer apart. She had fled to her rooms and collapsed onto the covers, weeping.

Realisation crashed down upon her. What had she done?

She fell into an uneasy sleep.

Uneasy, for her dreams were plagued by her sin. Sweet images of her family were twisted as she saw the devastation in Robb and Sansa's faces at the boy's death, the disgust on Ned's face as he sent her back to Riverrun with a declaration from King Robert that annulled their marriage, and made Robb and Sansa Starks only.

The disappointment in her father and uncle's faces as they married her off to some minor Riverlord so that she wouldn't shame their family any further.

All of it the fruit of a cursed wish.

ΦΔΘΦΔΘΦΔΘΦΔΘ

She'd woken up with tears in her eyes.

The maidservants that helped her dress that morning didn't seem to know what had transpired the previous night. As she proceeded to the Great Hall for breakfast, nor did anyone else. It was impossible that Caspian had said nothing, but then she had entered the Great Hall.

It was empty, except for the Head Table. For there in the Lord's Seat was her husband, Eddard Stark. _Not for long_, something whispered, and when she saw the look in his eyes...

Catelyn had suddenly had a much easier time believing that this man defeated Ser Arthur Dayne. His eyes didn't boil with hatred like Caspian's. No. They were as cold as his dominion. They ran over her, examining her. She absently wondered if that was how wolves examined their prey, imagining what its blood would feel like when it had been brought down.

"_I knew that you did not approve of Jon's presence in this keep. What I did was wrong, I know it; I own it. I never asked you to be his mother, I never even asked you to love him, like him or even care for him. I tolerated your barbs at the boy, _defended_ you to Luwin when he thought that Jon was not in fact naturally thin, but _this_? You expect me to ignore this?"_

His voice… she shuddered. His voice had been cold enough to freeze the expanse of Dorne. The arm of his chair had squeaked repeatedly under his grip.

"_What you've done… I do not know if I can forgive you. Caspian and I have spoken at length on both our beliefs. And I know that even your Seven would do naught but curse you for this. Caspian wished that I send you back to your home, back to Riverrun in shame."_

Her mind had nearly frozen in terror as she felt her nightmare coming true.

She had been certain she would be sent away, away from her children and back to Riverrun, to be the laughingstock of the South, the absolute shame of her family.

"_However," her husband said, causing her to look up, a small glimmer of hope in her eyes, "I will not separate Robb and Sansa from their mother. For them, I will allow you to stay here, but do not believe, even for a moment, I will forget this. It will be a long time before I trust you again. You have burned every bridge you have with me. Someday, I _may_ forgive… but never think I will _forget_. _

_Robb and Sansa will never learn of this for I do not wish for them to hate you. Nor will anyone else. I will not allow Winterfell to be divided by your actions._

_Tell me, Catelyn, did you think even for a moment what Jon's death would do to us? Robb and Sansa, they do not understand the concept of bastardry; they only know that they love their brother. Did you imagine, for even an instant, that they would be _happy_ to lose him? That I would?"_

Catelyn had tried to speak, to apologize, to say she had thought of all these things and a thousand more after she left the Sept, only to be cut off.

"_Don't bother. I know you did not. Begone from my sight. Your meals will be delivered to your rooms if you wish. Else, ensure I do not see you for the rest of the day."_

She had walked away silently, head bowed in shame.

Relief did not even rear its head. To her, this was simply a stay of execution. She was certain Ned would change his mind and send her away.

She had travelled the stone corridors of Winterfell with her head hung low. Arriving in their chambers, she had wrapped herself in the blankets from their bed. The walls of the keep that had once felt so warm and inviting despite the northern chill, that had captured her heart with their ancient beauty, now felt as cold and forbidding as their lord.

She had spent the remainder of the day in her chambers, watching out the window as clouds covered the sky and snow fell once again.

She'd prayed silently, not daring to go to the Sept for fear of encountering Ned or Caspian. She had prayed for forgiveness, prayed that her hatred would be removed from her, prayed that the gods would give her the chance to pay penance for her sins.

What she'd done was unforgivable to Ned, to herself. But perhaps, if the gods forgave her, he might too.

ΦΔΘΦΔΘΦΔΘΦΔΘ

The next day, she had left her rooms. Ned appeared to have kept his word. None had learned what had happened. Oh, they were curious as to why she had spent the day in her rooms, but her past behavior worked to her advantage for once. They likely believed that she did not appreciate the Wolf Pack hovering about the boy.

She had gone about her day, performing her duties.

She had sat through some of Sansa's lessons and watched some of Robb's training sessions with Rodrik. Every so often, if Caspian happened to pass through the yard on his duties, she would feel his glare on her skin. She did not however see Ned.

She had once more gone to sleep with her ears ringing with the curses she imagined would be hurled at her if anyone ever learned of her sin.

ΦΔΘΦΔΘΦΔΘΦΔΘ

Today, she had risen with the sun, woken by shouting in the main yard. Men with raised voices, barking orders this way and that. She heard Caspian's voice rise clear above them all, calling out to a servant about the whereabouts of her husband.

She watched from her rooms as Caspian and Ned returned, both dressed for travel and galloping away at high speed. She had called for a maidservant, asking why Lord Stark had left with such alacrity. She learned that a messenger had come from a nearby town, bringing news of three deaths. Apparently, circumstances made it sound like it had been accidental, however accusations of murder were being thrown and the local magistrate was unable to resolve the case.

By the laws of the land, a request had been sent to Winterfell for Ned to adjudicate as the nearest high lord.

She had gotten dressed for the day and walked out to the yard in a daze. She didn't know why it hurt so much that he'd left without speaking to her. She knew that she'd done nigh irreparable damage to their marriage, but it still hurt in her heart.

She had drifted toward the Sept, and there she'd stayed.

She had prayed to the Father to forgive her sin, swearing to the Mother and Maiden that she would be a mother to the boy, love him like her own. She'd beg Ned to have Robert legitimize him, and even if it didn't happen, she would find it in herself to love the boy; all so that she would not lose her family.

She had even prayed to the Stranger, begging for his forgiveness for asking such a monstrous thing of him; begging him to return the boy to his father and siblings.

Then one of the maids had come to call her to the midday meal. She made her decision.

"Have a plate brought to the infirmary, girl. I will take my meal there." She clamped down on the renewed guilt inspired by the surprised look on the girl's face. Instead, a raised eyebrow sent the maid away. She had truly made no secret how much she hated the boy, had she?

She walked to the infirmary. Luwin was conspicuous by his absence. The maid, Sona she remembered, said that Luwin was occupied in Wintertown with another bout of coughing sickness. The second in a month, she noted. She would have to tell Ned about it…

She lapsed into melancholy again as she took Ned's seat, the tray balanced on her knees.

How long would it be, she wondered, before her family felt whole again?

Robb and Sansa may not know what she'd done, but they were smart. They'd realize something was wrong between their parents and they would ask. What then? She doubted Ned would be able to lie to them.

An unsteady smile stole over her face when she remembered Ned sputtering when Robb had asked how Sansa had been _'put in Mama's tummy'_. She had desperately hidden her laughter in her napkin, even as Caspian and Rodrik had snickered in the background. Rather than do as her father had and lie, Ned had simply said that he'd explain when Robb was older and fled.

She let out a watery laugh.

She'd ribbed Ned about the 'big bad Wolf' being afraid of his pup for weeks after. Ned had gotten revenge the night Sansa had been born, when he said, _'you get to explain reproduction to your daughter, fair warning'_. He'd swiftly been banned from mentioning her response of fainting to anyone. Ever.

A new tear ran down her cheek and fell into her lap.

She put the food away on one of the other beds, having lost her appetite.

Would she ever laugh with him again? Would he ever tell her he loved her, the way he had when he held Sansa for the first time? Would her family ever be whole again?

She slid from the seat and sat down on the boy's bed.

He looked so very small.

She'd once hated that he was an inch or so taller than Robb, but he barely made it above her knee when he stood. How petty could she be, to despise such a small little thing?

Her tears ran thicker as she looked at his face, realising that this was the first time she had seen him look so open, so at peace; the first time his Stark features were not closed off due to her presence. She could have sworn she saw a little smile on his face too. Her self-hatred only magnified.

She reached out with trembling fingers to smooth his hair away from his face. As her fingers brushed his forehead, she felt how warm he was - just a little too warm. She moved without thinking. Retrieving a handful of towels from the shelves and the fresh bucket of water from the corner of the room, she quickly wet the cloth in the cold water, rung out the excess and placed it across his forehead.

She placed her palm against his too-warm cheek.

"I'm so sorry, Jon. I'm so sorry I couldn't love you. How wroth the Mother must be with me, unable to love a motherless child because I was angry at my husband, hating you just for existing?"

Another sob escaped her, rich with self-loathing. "You are your father's boy to the bone. How could I believe that you might usurp Robb when you've only ever looked after him? Barely two months older, but you look after him like I did Edmure! Sansa loves you so much. She'd rather spend time with you than with I or Ned."

"And what did I do?"

"I hated you so much that I pr-pray-prayed th-that y-you die!" Words failed her as she collapsed, weeping silently into his chest.

"Please." She begged through her tears. "Please. Let him wake up. Please wake up, Jon. I swear you'll never lack for love again. I promise. Please."

She continued to cry softly. Eventually, her exhaustion caught up to her and she fell asleep, listening to the heartbeat of the little boy she swore she'd love like her own.

* * *

**So.**

**Good, bad, ugly?**

**The chapter seems too short for how long it took to get it out, huh? *sigh* Unfortunately, that is the life of a university student. I uploaded the first chapter for MMTWP at the end of September and any uni student will tell you that the next 3 months are hellish since midterms and final exams come one after the other.**

**BUT!**

**I still managed to carve out the time to get this done. The chapter **_**was**_** going to be much longer than 7.5k words. However, it turned out that the chat between Jon and Harry is going to be a loooong and involved conversation. Important plot points and arcs will be set up. Not even half way through that conversation, I looked up and realised that the word count was nearly 20,000. Since I didn't want to dump a massive chapter so early in the story and mess with the flow – I broke it up into 2 chapters.**

**2 more things.**

**Firstly, I am extremely thankful for the support and encouragement my reviewers gave me just from the Prologue. When I uploaded it, I honestly thought very few people would like it since it felt so overdone. And while 22 reviews may not seem like much, to a rookie author it is perhaps the greatest piece of encouragement I could get.**

**Secondly, and MOST IMPORTANTLY:**

**As you might have read in the opening AN, Esila173's review particularly stuck with me. Now going by the name Beleriond, we have been involved in a long correspondence about where this story is going and how it will develop. It is thanks to them that this story is going to so much greater than what I had imagined it to be. Beleriond not only consented to beta this essential opening chapter for me, they have agreed to continue working with me on future chapters as well! Thank you so much.**

**Well.**

**Read, Review, Follow and Favorite. It's the fuel that feeds my muse. I welcome all contributions and criticisms. But, Flames Will Be Used For Smores.**

**I hope to see you for Chapter 2: Revelations.  
**


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